


Coffin + Grin + Bloodbag

by panchostokes (badwolfrun)



Series: Prompt Fics [44]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Blood, Confinement, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016) Whump, Stab Wound, Whump, coffins, implied vampirism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfrun/pseuds/panchostokes
Summary: A fiery nightmare turns into an icy one, as Jack realizes it's not a nightmare at all.
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016), Jack Dalton/Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Series: Prompt Fics [44]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540795
Comments: 28
Kudos: 47





	Coffin + Grin + Bloodbag

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rai_Knightshade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rai_Knightshade/gifts).



> based off of the prompt: a coffin, goofy grins, empty bloodbags
> 
> it’s never too late for halloween shenanigans lol…s/o to @impossiblepluto for making this fic even better than originally intended with a brainstorming session
> 
> (believe it or not i saw the word coffin and DIDN'T go for the trope that first came to mind)

He had a dream like this once.

More dreams than he’d care to admit, especially after the crematorium incident. When he wakes up, he still feels an invisible fire tickling his feet, feels his hands constricted in invisible bonds, feels invisible smoke stings his eyes. 

He’s not fully convinced that he had been rescued until he sits up, drenched in sweat, safe and sound on his bed at home. 

He’s not fully convinced now, either, as he sits up and his forehead immediately impacts a hard surface.

A _wooden_ surface. 

“No…no, no, no, no,” he whispers. It’s completely dark, but there’s no fire to light up his prison, in fact, it almost feels as if there’s ice instead, he can feel his bones trembling. He digs through his pockets to find his phone, but it’s not there. His wallet’s also gone, and his keys…He pats his arms, they’re bare, up to his shoulders–he’s in a tank top, he realizes, not his normal get-up unless he’s trying to channel John McClane, but he has no memory of the sort.

He almost feels as if he has no memory at all. 

He doesn’t even remember how he got a small, but rather deep incision into the side of his stomach, bleeding through what he thought was a pure white tank top, twisting his stomach into a tight knot. 

A tight frozen knot, as he wonders, _why does he feel so cold?_

He tries to rummage through his brain, determine what his last memory was before transcending sleep into a living nightmare, but he can’t keep hold of his head as it tumbles around in his brain. He can just barely see the swirls of the wood inches away from his eyes, which are adjusting to the pitch black darkness. 

He tentatively reaches a hand to the lid of the container he’s trapped in, feels around for any ridges or cracks. The previous coffin had small slivers which allowed the flickering light of the flames to pass through.

This box, while not confirmed to be a coffin, certainly felt like it belonged in the category, as it had the same, tight slits that he could just barely dig his fingernails into, spread it apart just enough for any light to pass through.

There’s still no light, only darkness. 

There’s a chance, a very slim chance, that perhaps he’s in a darkened room. Or in a moving vehicle, his body does feel as if it’s being…moved without moving. Light, like a feather, almost as if he’s floating.

Not only that, but perhaps something is on top of the box, stopping any light from coming through.

Or perhaps…he’s buried alive.

Or maybe not alive at all.

Maybe he’s so cold because he’s a corpse, maybe a part of his consciousness has stayed alive to--heaven forbid--begin the zombie apocalypse. 

Or maybe he’s just cold without his jacket.

All of the possibilities of what _could_ be happening are weighed out by what _is_ happening, and a quick decision is made that, even if he is dead and has become the very thing he swore to destroy, part of him is still alive, and he needs to _protect_ that part, even if he needs help in doing so.

“H-Hey!” he calls out through chattering teeth, pounds his fists against the wood. “Let me out of here!”

His ears perk up, straining to hear any sound in response.

There’s no sound outside of the increasing panic of his breath. 

“Help!” he cries out, letting the word ring out his tonsils, scratch at his throat as he scratches and claws at the wood above him. He hates how _weak_ he sounds, crying and begging, but had it not been for Mac, he would never have survived the last coffin. He certainly never survives his dreams. 

And he might not survive this, especially not knowing how long he’s been in here, and how much air he has left. 

So he keeps yelling, screaming, begging, clawing, because he has nothing else up his sleeve. Doesn’t even have a sleeve to cover himself anyway, his true self is revealed, inches away from a probably death by suffocation, or insanity, whichever comes first. 

But there’s another part of himself that’s revealed along with it, his _fighting_ self. 

His shaky, bloodied fingers curl up into a fist. He saw it in a movie once, and while there’s no guarantee it will actually work, if he is, in fact, underneath something of equal or heavier weight, such as the raw foundation of the earth itself, it’s worth a shot. He’s not going to go down quietly, if he goes down at all. 

He begins to punch, and the wood splinters into his knuckles, he winces, but the adrenaline numbs the pain. It feels more like an itchy mosquito bite as opposed to the sharp sting of the wood embedded into his fist like a porcupine.

It’s exhilarating, even, as he continues to punch, and the wood continues to fall onto his chest, and while he’s tearing apart the wooden void in front of him only to uncover more darkness, it somehow feels as if it’s a _lighter_ darkness. Full of space, full of _air,_ that he swallows in loud, pronounced gasps. Once he feels that he’s created enough space, he sticks his head through the gap, and sits up. 

“Hello? Anyone?” he calls out into the darkness, fighting the weight of his own head, the anchor in his stomach that tells him to lie back down. He feels dizzy, nauseous, uncertain whether to pin the blame on the blood loss or whiplash from the sudden motions after his confinement. He feels like he’s a melting icicle, cold sweat dripping all over his skin, his movements slow, difficult to perform with limbs that have just...given up.

“Icicle” turns out to be more of an apt descriptor than he thought, as he fumbles around the new, more spacious darkness, and feels a switch poke into his palm. He turns it up, and sees not only his surroundings in full light, but his own breath in visible puffs of air.

He’s in a freezer.

“W-w-what the _f-fu-fuck?”_ he chatters as he immediately hugs himself in effort to generate heat. He ignores the shelving, ignores the contents of the freezer, immediately zones in on the only part of this larger prison that matters; the exit.

Which is, surprisingly, unlocked. 

He bursts through, balling his stiff, screaming fingers into fists--almost thankful for the wooden splinters that give his fist a spiked edge--but his fighting stance falters as he finds that he’s faced with a crowd, and a chorus of voices.

“He's awake!”

“Nobody has escaped before...” 

“Look at him, he must be a vampire, after all!”

“Let’s get him!”

The voices are unfamiliar, shrill, they seem louder than they are in his eardrums, amplified by the unsettling indistinguishable features, hidden by hoods that are taken off to reveal a sea of goofy grins from complete strangers, though a few of the heads are vibrating, seem to shutter in and out of the identities of his loved ones. Mac, Riley, Bozer, even Matty’s face screams at him as the crowd gets closer, threatening a new sort of confinement, one of flesh and bone...and blood.

“Get back!” he shouts, hating how high his voice sounds, cracking from exhaustion and what he realizes is massive blood loss. His eyes suddenly focus in on a nearby table, littered with pouches full of red liquid.

Red like blood.

“Come, darling, you must be hungry...” the voice in the forefront smiles at him, lulling him with a wriggling finger, the other hand squeezing a pouch of blood. “Let us feed you, and then you can go back to sleep...”

Blood. Coffins. Cold. Pale skin. 

_Vampires._

He quickly disarms one of his fists, pats the sides of his neck, it’s smooth, clear of any punctures.

He’s not one of them.

Not yet.

Something grabs his hand before he can curl it back into a fist, and out of instinct, he flings his other fist right at it, he screams so loudly that spit flies out of his mouth, which is not as dry as he thought--and his assailant falls to the ground with a _thud!_

The others back off, and Jack takes advantage of the moment to both recover what little charge he has left in his life force, and make a threatening jab in hopes that they leave him alone altogether.

“Nobody…puts Jack Dalton…in a coffin,” he pants, wiping a dribble of spit from his chin with the back of his hand. 

_Wait...is that spit? Or is it blood?_ he asks himself as he stares at the back of his hand, sees the dried smear of liquid.

His eyes are unable to answer him, as they roll into the back of his head.

* * *

When his eyes open again, he’s no longer shrouded in darkness, but blasted with an overwhelmingly bright light. 

He shuts his eyes, though he’s thankful for it, much preferring a never ending void of light than one of darkness. 

But he’s not alone in the void, he can hear faint noises--footsteps, voices, beeping, ringing phones, sirens. His first guess is that he’s in a hospital, supported by the IV sticking into his arm, the soft cushion that his body rests on top of, the woven fabric tucked over him.

His second guess, is that the vampires have simply moved him to an open, padded casket, have determined that he is not vampire material after all, (he always saw himself as more of a werewolf, anyway), and are currently draining him of the rest of the blood in his body.

His evidence? The filling blood bag hanging above his head, the precious contents swashing around as he continues to float in the cold, icy air. Perhaps he was a vampire after all, even with the blanket and new clothing, he feels cold.

“Put it back...” he mutters, fumbling for the tubing connected to the bag. Maybe if he can pull the bag off the hook, he can suck the blood back into his body. “Put it back!” 

“Hey, easy there, big guy,” a voice soothes him, gently removes his hand and suddenly his body warms up, his cheeks blossoming with a blush as he stares directly at an angel. 

“Am I dead?” he asks Mac, who’s smiling at him with a twinkle of sadness in his eyes. Jack can barely stand seeing how pale his skin is in the fleshy pinkness of Mac’s skin. 

“Just about, that’s why they’re filling you back up,” Mac nods to the IV drip which Jack realizes is not filling up, but draining down. “They’re putting the blood back in, buddy, you just gotta be patient.”

“What...what the hell happened, Mac?” Jack asks in a low whisper. “Where’s the garlic?”

“Garlic?”

“For...the vampires. They might come back for me!”

“There were no vampires, Jack.”

“Yes, there were! They-they cut me open, took my blood, then put me on ice-- _in a coffin,”_ he hisses, both from the retelling of his traumatic experience, and from the pain in his wrapped-up lower torso as he tries to sit up, though Mac places a hand on his chest, gently guides him back down. “They...they thought I was one of them!”

“You got stabbed, Jack. You managed to get away, ran into some drugged kids who saw how pale you were, thought you were a vampire.”

“They were gonna feed me blood!” 

“They were gonna give you _Kool-aid_ , Jack, they didn’t know any better.”

“Oh yeah?”

Mac’s face falls apart into a stifled laugh at the unintentional joke. Or maybe it is intentional, because Jack also can’t stand to see him so worried, decides to cure Mac of his concern with his trademark humor. 

“I punched one of them,” Jack mutters after the laughter settles.

“You did. Knocked him out cold, the others scattered before you passed out, but the ruckus clued me into your location.” 

“My hero,” Jack smiled at him with a small wink. “Always saving my ass.”

“Well, Jack...it’s an ass worth saving.” 


End file.
